Talking to monkeys
by GeologistsRock
Summary: Slow burn. Hermione is a police psychologist working closely with Chief Officer Harry Potter on a case involving Bellatrix Lestrange. First time author. Please review. Rated M for slight violence and sexual content.


Chapter I: Positive intentions

 **Authors note:** I will not be updating regularly (sorry). Also, I'm a bit obsessive. Therefore, I will probably be constantly modifying (little things) my text. Enjoy the read! All comments are welcomed... I don't really know what I'm doing.

Awakened unexpectedly, I glance around the living room. The balcony door left ajar the previous evening is opening and closing itself with each gust of wind, bringing in fresh rain. I groan, heavily dragging my hands over my face. "What is the time?" I mumble groggily. Quick glance at my wrist watch. The day's already started.

After closing the balcony door, I rush to the washroom. Shower. Toothpaste. Pants. Yawn. This leaves me hastily looking for my keys. Opening the refrigerator to grab a banana, I find my keys and wallet next to the milk. "Would have never guessed," I state perplexed.

Soon I find myself weaving through the thick crowd of morning commuters waiting for the U-Train. Heavy sigh of relief as I board. Right on schedule. Settling into a seat, I munch my banana and guzzle water. Twenty minutes later, I briskly walk towards my office building, the rain a light drizzle.

Once at work, a large cup of tea is necessary. As the liquid cools, I shift through the messily placed dossiers on my desk. Nothing out of the ordinary until I reach the last. It's heavy, and pervades the air with a musty smell. The edges are skewed. The name B. LESTRANGE is stamped in red across the front. "Name sounds familiar" I mutter.

"It should" a voice replies from my doorway.

Startled, I almost knock over my morning dose of caffeine. Turning to glare at the intruder, my lips pressed into a hard line, I realize it's none other than Chief Officer Potter. Leaning on the door frame, cool as a cucumber staring with his large owlish eyes; his immaculate appearance is, as per usual, tarnished by a full head of unmanageable black hair.

He slowly steps into my office coming to stand in front of me before unbuttoning his suit jacket and sitting at the corner of my desk. Leaning back, he gazes around my cramped office. Rows upon rows of books and files line the walls. A once comfortable couch is now crushed under the weight of boxed documents. A faint smell of dust and black tea lingers. The lighting is poor, as can attest a few haphazardly placed plants sitting low in their pots, slowly wilting away. His asparagus colored eyes trace their way back to mine.

"Mrs. Bellatrix Lestrange – maiden name Black – was arrested three days ago in the early morning. She was initially spotted by a group of rubbish collectors near Diagon Alley intoxicated and bleeding from a head wound. After being subdued by the corresponding police officers, she was brought to St-Mungo hospital. Forty eight hours later, she was transferred to this building for interrogation," he says calmly, eyes gleaming. "She has yet to utter a single word since her arrival," he continues. A pregnant pause. He stares out the window; the sun is hidden by heavy clouds.

"I would like for you to conduct the next interview with Mrs. Lestrange" Harry says after a while. "She holds vital information concerning the location of her deceased husband's affiliates." Curious, I flip open the dossier. Clipped to the first page is a monochrome photograph of a young woman. A wild mane of curly black hair lazily hanging around a pale face. Piercing dark eyes stare defiantly out. Full lips pursed. Terrifyingly beautiful – the eye of a tornado.

I weigh his words. "I will need to prepare" I say.

"No problem. How about we conclude tomorrow morning?" He asks, straightening himself and smiling lightly.

"That sounds appropriate," I answer. He nods.

"I first laid my eyes on Bellatrix Lestrange at the age of fifteen. My uncle – Sirius Black – had just passed; I was visiting his tomb when a rather pale woman approached. We didn't speak, but she laid a stone on his grave," Harry says walking around the crowded office, picking up a book here and there.

"This woman has a lot to offer us, I am sure of it," he continues. "The initial investigation into the Lestranges activities was before our time, but we shall assuredly be its conclusion," he says boldly.

I watch as his figure recedes into the depth of the hallway. Pacing around my office, I finish my tea. With a deep sigh, I pick up the file, but not before pouring myself a second cup of Jitter Juice. I start thumbing through the large file.

XX

The stars blink down lazily as ominous clouds roll over the city. I stand on a roof, breathing in the cool night air. The metropolitan is bustling at my feet, unfazed by the lateness of the evening. Cars and people going about like colony ants. I breathe out, enjoying the cool wind on my face. In a few hours I'll be called back to work – into the belly of the beast.

But for the moment I stand still, leaning against the edge of the roof. Feeling dwarfed by the night sky, I wrap my blanket tightly around my shoulders.

"What an odd creature this Bellatrix Lestrange," I sigh.

XXX

The door creaks open, slowly swinging on its rust spotted hinges. A man steps forward, the floorboards moan under his weight. He nervously licks his thin lips and passes a hand through his greasy hair. The only source of light, for it is a dark and cold night, is a dim fire burning inside of an ample stone fireplace. The crackling dry wood and the smoldering black ash bring no warmth to the room.

A lone crimson armchair sits in front of the dying fire. Its long shadow reaches far out. Poised on an arm rest is a pale skeletal hand with long and fine fingers.

"You have failed me," a hissing voice says.

"I … I am terribly sorry, my Lord. The cunning bitch managed to escape," the nervous fellow stutters. Beads of sweat shine on his forehead and upper lip. His shirt is soaked with perspiration and plastered to his back.

Suddenly, the servants head snaps violently backwards and he lets out a gut wrenching scream. Guitar-string tendons and bursting veins bulge out beneath the skin of his neck. His hands curl inwards as his legs give out; he falls to his knees and tips over unto his side. No longer can his screams be heard; air wheezes out of his lungs like from a deflating balloon.

The pain stops as quickly as it started. Panting, his eyes damp from uncried tears, the man tries to stand. Blood trickles off his chin – he had bitten his tongue.

"I shall not be as generous next time. Fix this." Gray eyes, as cruel as a new blade, shine out from the shadows of the fireplace, boring into the servants.

"Yes, my Lord. I shall not disappoint." Trembling like a small child, the man urgently leaves the room, stumbling through the doorway.


End file.
